


Alternatives

by thedevilchicken



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Fluffy Ending, M/M, Post-Canon, Sexual Fantasy, Touching, mentions of cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 05:45:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14158083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: Sometimes, as he lies awake in bed at night, Will thinks about the night that Hannibal was caught.





	Alternatives

**Author's Note:**

  * For [higuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/higuchi/gifts).



Sometimes, as he lies awake in bed at night, Will thinks about the night that Hannibal was caught. 

He knows, of course, that _caught_ is at best a fiction and at worst a lie. It's a lie he tells himself sometimes so he doesn't have to face what's beneath it: underneath, he's not sure of the truth. The narrative has so many layers pressed to tight that they've bled together and now he's not sure who manipulated whom. He's not sure he ever really knew. He's not completely sure that he wants to.

But, sometimes, he thinks about that night, back home in Wolf Trap after Mason Verger's farm. He thinks about the other ways it might have gone. 

He arranges them both as they were that night, shifting them both inside through the open front door, adjusting their limbs like wired mannequins until he's lying on the bed and Hannibal's seated in the chair nearby, ever the parody of psychiatrist and patient. He runs the scene as he remembers it, the bitter taste in his mouth as he tells him to leave, the look in Hannibal's eyes as he turns for the door, and then he rewinds to play it over again. 

He knows how he would change it now, and sometimes, at night, when his eyes are closed, that's what he does. He doesn't lie and say he won't follow him if he runs, so he will never have to resent the fact he said it or that Hannibal might even have believed him, once. He doesn't tell him to leave, and so he doesn't. When Hannibal stands himself up from the chair, he doesn't turn to the nearby front door; he looks at Will for one long moment as he assesses his next move, and then he stretches out slowly on the bed, on his back, at Will's side. 

"This mattress is terrible," Hannibal says. "There's no wonder you have trouble sleeping, Will." 

Hannibal folds his hands on top of his chest and he turns his head to look at him. Will, for his part, is already looking. 

He remembers every detail of Hannibal's face behind his eyes and so imagining this isn't hard. It's not difficult to imagine his weight against the mattress or the stink of blood clinging to their skin, though that last part is more memory that it's imagination. Will remembers what happened at the Verger farm, and he remembers the specifics and the extents of their injuries, but when he thinks about that night, he plays those down to a dull ache. There's a dull ache to everything where Hannibal's concerned, like a warning sign that he understands but chooses to ignore. 

The back of Hannibal's hand brushes the back of Will's. The look on his face is one of continuous appraisal, testing and retesting as he attempts to describe Will's limits, but Will doesn't flinch as Hannibal's fingers slip around his wrist. His hand is just big enough to touch thumb to middle finger if he squeezes, so he squeezes. Will just holds his gaze. Compared with all the other things they've done to one another, a little pressure is nothing. 

The Hannibal in his head is so much like the real thing that Will knows he can't make him do anything it's not already in his nature to do, if he could ever make him do anything at all. When Hannibal turns onto his side and props his head up on one arm, it's not because Will asked him to. When he rests his free hand warmly against Will's clothed chest, fingers splayed to feel the rise and fall of it with each new breath, it's because Will could see him having done that - all it would have taken was the right confluence of variables. It's the same when Hannibal rests that hand against Will's throat. It's the same when it travels down and tucks up under the hem of Will's shirt to rest there, skin on skin. And still Will doesn't flinch. Hannibal seems pleased by that. 

Not so very long ago, Will talked with Bedelia du Maurier about Hannibal's feelings for him. She's a liar, and a good one, not the best he's ever seen but sometimes genuinely convincing, but he can't say he believes she lied that day. When Hannibal leans in and presses his mouth to the side of Will's neck, to the pulse beating there just underneath his jaw, experimental, as his palm presses flat to his abdomen, he believes her, and himself. And he doesn't flinch, but he does respond. 

He twists the fingers of one hand into Hannibal's hair, tight enough to be just a little painful but not enough that the gesture says _stop_. Hannibal looks down at him, quizzical, but only for a moment. Will's pulse races as he pulls him in. His heart pounds hard in his chest as his thumbs brush Hannibal's jaw. Every time he pulls him in and kisses him, mouth pressed to mouth, it's like the first time - technically, he guesses it is. 

Logically, Will knows Hannibal can't be good at everything he tries; practically, however, he's yet to prove that theory. Hannibal moves as they kiss, settling himself on top of him, and he doesn't accidentally kneel on Will's thigh or dig his hipbone into Will's groin or any of a hundred mishaps that could easily occur. He spreads himself over him and Will's clothed thighs come up, feet flat to the bed, to bracket Hannibal's hips. It's not rushed, because in his head they know Jack's not coming. They know they're alone. 

Hannibal breaks the kiss and he meets Will's gaze as he rocks his hips against him, slow and utterly deliberate. He's already half the way to hard, just like Will is, and Will can feel that but even if he couldn't, he'd see the faint flush in Hannibal's cheeks, the intensity in his expression, and make the correct assumption on the evidence. At no point in his conversation with Bedelia did they call this a romantic love and not just a kind of fraught obsession, a _sexual_ love and not some genre of platonic, but Will is aware that it's not chaste. The way Hannibal addresses him is not chaste and hasn't been for quite some time. The way Will feels is not chaste, either. 

"Take off your clothes," Will says, his voice sounding strained, and Hannibal's brows rise. He pulls back. He kneels up between Will's thighs. 

"Will you take off yours, too?" he asks in return. 

"I'm not looking for a show, Dr. Lecter," Will says, and he reaches. His fingers catch the waistband of Hannibal's ruined slacks. "What I want is more a practical demonstration."

"Of what, exactly?" Hannibal asks, but he's already pulling off his shirt. "We both know you've had sex before now, Will, with women and also with men. A demonstration would seem to be redundant at this point." 

Will's thumbs trace the bare skin just above the waist of Hannibal's slacks. "A demonstration of what it is you want from me," he says, and his mouth twists wryly. "Short of the brain from my skull, of course." 

"I could have both," Hannibal says, intrigued. 

"Pick one," Will replies, harshly, and he doesn't say supply of one is more finite than the other because they both already know. 

Hannibal leaves the bed. Will watches him undress as if for the first time, sees his bare skin as if for the first time, watches him wrap one hand around his half-hard cock and squeeze like that's the first time, too. Will knows Hannibal's body isn't perfect - he's scarred in more place than just one and he's eaten too well over the years for that to have left him unscathed, but Will doesn't care about that for a second. He twists and turns and pulls off his own clothes, too, and underneath he's far from being perfect, either. They both bear the scars of what they've done to each other. 

Hannibal sits at the side of the bed, on the edge of the mattress, half turned with one knee pulled up so he can look at him. He runs one hand from Will's chin to the hollow at the base of his throat and presses there, a fraction more than lightly. He sweeps one hand over Will's collarbone and then down, over his chest, over his abdomen, and Will can't help but shiver at that touch, at that look on Hannibal's face, like he's imagining his fingers as a scalpel and the blood blooming in its wake. Then he moves; he shifts slowly, settling back between Will's spread thighs. He runs one hand over the length of Will's stiffening cock. Then he meets Will's eyes. 

He looks like there's a taunt or a tease on the tip of his tongue, a barb of truth, a witticism, but he doesn't say a word. He leaves the bed again to open up a drawer in the dresser just across the room and Will knows he knows where to look because he's been here before, alone, and maybe at that time all he wanted was to frame him for the murders he hadn't committed but that wouldn't have kept him back from committing the place to memory anyway. When he returns, he's holding lubricant in one hand and a condom in the other; Will raises his brows with an obvious meaning as his stomach pulls tight, and Hannibal abandons the little foil wrapper on the table by the bed. Will doesn't want that. They don't need it. Nothing about this has ever been what Will could consider safe. 

Hannibal slicks his fingers and Will watches him do it, pushed up on his forearms so he can see. Hannibal slicks his cock and he watches him do that, too, stroking the lubricant from base to tip and back again. Will is brimming with anticipation; Hannibal's fingers falter as he strokes himself and Will knows that means he feels it, too. He can see how much Hannibal wants this because he knows exactly where to look for the cracks that form in his calm veneer. It's gratifying. It makes Will want it more. 

Will spreads his legs out wider and Hannibal moves in close, catching one of Will's calves and easint it up against his chest. It's easier that way if still not easy - Will's more exposed to him and he knows they both get off on that, and Hannibal rubs the length of his slick cock between Will's cheeks. Hannibal's face is flushed. Hannibal's grip is tight around his ankle. Then he leans down closer, over him, propped up on his hands, and Will can feel the tip of him pushing at his hole. It makes his cock stiffen harder. It makes his breath hitch as Hannibal starts to push inside. He knows how much he used to want to deny that he wanted this.

It's a tight fit. In his head, Will hasn't done this in years, though he obviously recalls the basics, and he knows he didn't want to wait for Hannibal to get him ready with his fingers, though the thought of it is not at all one that he objects to. It smarts as Hannibal's cock opens him up but he doesn't mind that, he maybe even likes it, because the look on Hannibal's face is priceless. His hair is hanging out of place and his cheeks are flushed and his lips are parted and he looks like he's a second away from losing all of his self-control, though Will couldn't say if that would mean fucking him till they can't stand or tearing his throat out with his teeth. Either option would make sense, considering present company, but in the end he does neither. 

Hannibal moves slowly. Hannibal shifts his hips and his cock moves inside Will, just an inch, maybe not even that, but the friction of it makes him shiver nonetheless. He grips Hannibal's shoulders, at least at first, with those first few thrusts, but then his hands go up. There's no headboard so he fumbles past the open curtain to the window sill and he pulls, using that to lift his hips to let Hannibal push deeper into him. Hannibal groans with it and Will wraps his legs around his waist, his skin too hot, his muscles strained, and Hannibal's hands go up to the window sill, too, for leverage. He fucks him harder, his cock moving inside him, and Will can't catch his breath so he just stops trying. He slips one hand to his own cock and strokes, the back of his hand brushing Hannibal's stomach. They're looking straight at each other when he comes, not even a minute later. They're looking at each other as Hannibal's hips give a last few erratic thrusts before he comes inside him with a low, strained groan. 

A few minutes pass before they extricate themselves from one another, and Hannibal stretches out at Will's side again. And the fantasy begins to thin around the edges from that point and lose its sense of time - there's a shower that they take together and they dress each other's wounds, and when it's light outside the windows in the blinking of an eye, Hannibal's still there and not in custody. Will imagines them leaving together after that, though he doesn't know their destination. He imagines they wrap their arms around each other and hold on tight. Perhaps _too_ tight. 

Sometimes, he lies awake in bed and thinks about the night that Hannibal left himself be caught. He thinks about the other ways it might have gone, but he can't quite make himself regret that it didn't. 

This morning, as he lies in bed, he knows Hannibal is downstairs in the kitchen, cooking. He can smell it, so he gets up and he pulls on his robe and he steps into his slippers. He goes downstairs, where he finds Hannibal frying the leftover meat from last night's dinner in a little butter. It smells good, but it usually does, and as he's plating up breakfast for two, Will wraps his arms around Hannibal's waist as he stands up close behind him. He feels Hannibal's chuckle as much as he hears it. 

They survived the fall, though it surprised both of them - what Will had thought would be the end was a beginning in disguise. Now here they are, six years later. It turns out the world is more than big enough for the FBI to lose them in it. 

Sometimes, Will thinks about that night and all the other paths there might have been. But now, Hannibal turns and smiles and presses his mouth to his. It's not chaste. It speaks to the things that Hannibal wants that the experts say he could never hope to appreciate, but that hardly matters; they ate most of the experts, after all. 

Sometimes, Will thinks about that night. Sometimes, they talk about it. Sometimes, Hannibal puts his hands on him the way Will imagines that he might have, back in Wolf Trap, if he'd just told the truth - he touches him like Will's permission is a revelation. And sometimes, Hannibal admits he imagines it, too. 

But Will knows he won't regret the road not taken, because the road he took led him to this.


End file.
